


Tea for One

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes finds himself in an awkward predicament.  Watson secretly enjoys these moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea for One

My esteemed friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had been in residence at 221B Baker Street for the entirety of Tuesday morning. From the corner of my eye I had observed him writing up his case notes from the Mystery of the Brown Suede Slippers -- which I myself, alas, had not yet found an opportunity to record. Thereafter, he had focused his attention upon the restoration of a small china teapot, regrettably dropped and chipped by one of us the previous afternoon. Now he sat curled by the fire, lost in thought; a perfect study.

Meanwhile, I had been on various errands outside and beyond our rooms, returning to partake of some lunch with my friend, and to catch up with my reading.

Mrs. Hudson brought through a plateful of ham and mustard sandwiches for us both.

“Holmes,” I said, “come here and eat with me, and tell me all about this new case that you are working on.”

“I think that I might stay here by the fire, Watson,” said he. “Would you be kind enough to bring me my sandwich?”

I took him his plate. “What did your last servant die of?” I asked. He rolled his eyes. I returned to our breakfast table, sat down, and bit into my sandwich. “So?” I prompted, after several minutes. “The new case, Holmes?”

He turned his head again, his neck craned at what must have been a truly uncomfortable angle.

“It is but a trifle,” he said, haughtily. “A stuffed duck with no tail feathers, a wife without a hat pin, and a flowerbed tumescent with weeds. It is a simple exercise in logic, my dear Watson.”

“It is?”

“Yes. The housemaid is responsible, of that I have no doubt. I shall visit the house tomorrow. Probably.”

“Probably?” I looked across to my friend. “But you have nothing else planned, surely?”

Holmes gestured vaguely at me with his left hand. He seemed to hesitate. “Perhaps not,” he said, cautiously.

I finished my sandwich, and rose from my chair. Moving across to Holmes's chemistry table, I retrieved my notebook from where I had left it, and chinked a stray test tube back into its rack.

“You might want to tidy these up a little,” I said, tutting and vexed, “or I can very well see something else being broken.”

“Later,” said Holmes. “Not now.”

I turned around and eyed him. He was turned in towards the fire, his back partly to me. “What is the matter?” I asked. “Have I done or said something to upset you?”

“No, no, it is all right. I am all right, Watson. Do not fuss.”

I frowned, for something was quite definitely amiss.

“Was there something wrong with your sandwich?” I persisted.

Holmes sighed loudly and shook his head from side to side, as a wet little pup might do.

“I wish you would go about your business and leave me here with mine,” he said, peevishly.

Hurt, I said nothing, but collected my book from my desk, and retreated upstairs to my bedroom. Only when I had settled in my chair there to read, did I realise that I had forgotten my pipe and tobacco. Back down I trudged, pushing open the sitting-room door only to observe one fleeting second of my friend wrestling frantically with something to his side. He stopped sharply and looked up at me as I entered.

“Holmes,” I said, “have you lost something down the side of the cushions?”

“No,” he snapped. Then slowly, on reflection: “Actually, yes, yes I have, Watson. But never mind that. What did you come back for?”

“My pipe and tobacco,” I said. “Might you pass them to me, my dear fellow? They are just above your head there.”

“I think that I would rather not,” said Holmes. “If it is all the same to you.”

By now I was in no humour for my friend's increasingly bizarre behaviour. I strode to the mantel, snatched up my things, then spun around to see precisely what it was that was bothering him so. He was flapping around with a cushion, and I yanked it away in my temper. Holmes clutched for it feebly, but it was already jettisoned to one side. He glared up, then, and raised his right arm high in defiance.

“There, now,” said he. “Are you happy?”

“Holmes,” I said, baffled, “why do you have your hand inside a teapot?”

He looked sad. “It is stuck there,” he explained. “It became so while I was attempting to repair the spout. I find myself quite unable to remove it, Watson.” He waved it around by way of further explanation. “Help,” he added.

I sat down beside him, doing my best not to chuckle, for he was already quite pink around the ears with mortification. “Let me take a look at that,” I said.

The teapot was indeed small, with an even smaller opening at the lid. I might have taken a moment to admire the delicate colour of the glazing and the elegance of the handle had it not been for my poor friend's dire predicament, for his fist was very firmly wedged within. My initial, hesitant attempts at twisting his wrist, and then the pot itself to free him, resulted only in loud squeaks of pained complaint.

“Why ever did you place your entire hand inside the teapot?” I enquired, staring at it in fascination.

“I don't know,” said he, in a sulk. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Are you going to get it out, or not?”

“I am trying, Holmes,” I said, “but it is really quite unwilling to co-operate. Let me fetch a little grease.”

I fetched my medical bag and withdrew a small pot, a smearing of which I daubed on the edges between teapot and wrist. We renewed our attempts to rotate and wriggle.

“Blast it,” said Holmes, “it is not coming off.” He looked at me unhappily. “I can't walk around with my hand in a teapot for the rest of my life, Watson. _Do_ something.”

“We shall have to smash the teapot,” I said, with resolve. I reached into my bag again for a small mallet.

Holmes regarded the mallet with horror. “What?” he said.

“We shall have. To smash. The teapot,” I repeated, slowly.

Holmes looked down at his hand. “But it was expensive,” he whined. “I want a second opinion.”

I sighed in exasperation. “You are not going to get a second opinion,” I said. “It is a stuck teapot, not a rumbling appendix. We could try again with some more grease, if you like?”

He extended his arm, his face screwed up in displeasure. The second application of grease did no better a job than the first. Holmes slumped back in his chair, defeated. He examined the teapot closely, as though committing it to fond memory. Then he thrust it out towards me.

“Do your worst,” said he. “I just want my hand back.”

I spread a cloth upon my lap, and drew Holmes's teapot into the middle of it. A couple of sharp raps with the mallet, and shards of china piled up within. Holmes pulled his hand free and rubbed at his chafed wrist. He regarded me quietly, waiting for me to scold him further, perhaps.

“You are an idiot,” I said fondly, gathering together my clothful of shards.

Holmes smiled.

“I think you prefer me that way,” said he, wiggling his fingers to relieve them of their cramp.

The strange truth of it is, I really think that I do.


End file.
